


Hit My Smoke

by Quillstem



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fighter Pilots, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillstem/pseuds/Quillstem
Summary: Shiro's a damn good pilot, but he needs the help of a dead shot to blow up the targets that he marks.Lance has the skills.  But an asshole once told him,  "if you're good at something, never do it for free."





	Hit My Smoke

Shiro rose ten minutes shy of 0300 hours, no alarm needed. He pulled on his olive drab flight suit in the dark, as he listened to the deep thrum of his bungalow’s air conditioning unit and the snores of his roommate. Boots laced up, he padded quietly over to the door and slipped out into the night.

Even in pitch dark, both the air temperature and humidity still approached high nineties. Shiro began to sweat. Beads crawled down the back of his neck, along the nooks and ridges of his shoulder blades, and refused to evaporate. All around him jungle noises buzzed and muffled the man-made bustle of an air force squadron. He shuffled along the meandering, least muddy path from his quarters to the briefing room halfway across the base.

The room had chairs for a hundred, but a mere eighteen pilots were present when the meeting began. Only Shiro, the major standing at the lectern, and one other pilot were fully dressed. The rest of the ragged bunch sat in varying states of dishevelment. Some were bare-chested. One in the very back of the room snored in his boxers and boots, his jumpsuit draped across the seat next to him.

“Wake up asshole, eyes front,” the intelligence officer drawled. He threw a pen at the slacker in the rear. It bounced off the wall and the pilot’s eyes stayed shut, but the snoring stopped. Shiro and the other more alert men murmured their good mornings to the major, and he nodded. “Command sent word that accuracy of surface-to-air missiles in the western corridor is up. They suspect the galra set up a radar site somewhere in the area. Last week alone the furries downed ten high-alt bombers in the western. Eyes sharp for antennae or dishes from now on. Might be it’s truck-mounted, like the SAMs you boys have been painting so far, but intel thinks it’s big, stationary, and camo.”

Shiro raised a hand, and spoke at a curt nod from the officer. “Might be? Any photos of this new radar?”

The major barked out one sharp laugh. “Nope. Nobody has a fucking clue what to look for. If you all find one, make sure someone snaps a picture for old Uncle Alfor before it gets blown to shit. Right, Shirogane’s up first: callsign Stormy One One. Hunting ground’s zone one and three. Youngblood, you’re GIB. Wheels up at five.” He continued down the list, but Shiro had already stopped listening.

He closed his eyes.

 

************************************

 

“I hate being the guy-in-back.” Keith scowled, fussing with his dark blue flight harness.

They sat on benches facing the lockers in the ready room. Shiro--already harnessed--finished checking his helmet, and set it down to his side. He pulled a double-action revolver out of his locker. After he loaded a single cartridge into the cylinder, he snapped it shut and holstered the pistol under his left armpit.

“Those are the rules.” Shiro said. “Every new forward air controller rides three before they can drive. We’ve got to teach you how to survive first. You’ll be at the stick in a couple days if this good weather holds.”

Keith pursed his lips. “War’s almost over, anyway, only the galran homeland is left. And the ogre shot down all their fighters… We’re just a bunch of bomber pukes now.”

The older man pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, picked up his helmet, and shrugged. “Might not be fighters, exactly, but we aren’t bombers either. We’re air control. Don’t forget the camera.” He stood up and made his way to the door, out onto the tarmac.

 

************************************

 

Shiro eased the throttle to one quarter. His shining silver two-seater jet roared to life, belched fire from its single engine, and lifted up off the runway. The shadowy base grew tiny beneath and behind the aircraft. The inky night swallowed them whole.

The sun crested the horizon just as Stormy Eleven crossed over the border into galran airspace. Shiro spent two hours zigzagging across the four zones making up the Western corridor, teaching Keith the lay of the land. Keith squinted down at patchy dark green jungle. Here and there rivers snaked like blue veins across the terrain, and stony grey hillsides rose out of the mist like old teeth. Once, an explosion ground-side flared up large enough to be seen by the pilots, twenty-two thousand feet high. On the horizon, to the north, a massive, flat-topped mountain loomed. Solid, lumpy sheets of rain clouds were slowly rolling toward them from the Southeast.

“Can’t see anything up here, you’ll have to drop a lot of altitude.” Keith remarked. His shaded visor was down, and his oxygen respirator covered the lower half of his face. A 35mm camera sat forgotten on his lap.

“No point,” Shiro responded, his face also masked. “Anything we want to find is under camo down there, we’d only draw anti-air for no reason. Remember, 37mm guns will blow holes clean through a viper at fourteen thousand feet, but those’re rare. A twenty-three is deadly up to nine, and there's a lot of them down there. We’ll get to work once it starts raining over in zone one. Before that we need to gas up. Get cricket on the horn and find us a tanker.”

Stormy Eleven ascended to thirty thousand feet and hooked up with an aerial refueler. The fighter took on gas mid-air, and cruised back to zone one at 1100 hours. Rain clouds sitting at ten thousand feet above sea level now completely obscured the ground.

“We’re taking a peek bottom-side, the furries should be done setting up their SAMs now,” Shiro said. He pulled the viper into a graceful, looping dive to the left. It only took thirty seconds until the floor of fluffy white rushed up and enveloped them.

Suddenly they were through. Up there, the floor was white and the ceiling was blue; down here, the floor was green and the ceiling was dirty gray. Rain rattled the canopy like millions of pellets. This close to the ground both pilots could see individual trees, roads, causeways, pontoon bridges, cars, trucks, tanks. And guns pointed heavenward. Keith’s heart spasmed just as a wall of fire and lead arced up from a hundred different points along the forest floor. Up at the fragile metal tube he was stupidly hurtling through the sky in, up at him.

Shiro pulled his stick all the way back toward his chest, pushed the throttle to three-quarters. The jet burst through the clouds back up into the sapphire sky. A second later the fighter jet threw out a joyful sonic boom as it broke the sound barrier. A ghostly halo frosted the tail end of the fighter. Shiro jinked hard to the right, pulling his aircraft out of harm’s way. The brutal force of the high speed turn crushed both pilots into their seats. Their organs deformed, and their bones creaked in agony. Tracer rounds pierced the clouds. The space that Stormy Eleven just left screeching lit up like it was the end of the world. The pilot laughed, invigorated and free.

“Fun, huh?” Shiro called back toward the guy in back. Then he realized Keith was still screaming. “Oh c’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

The guy in back stopped his bawling.

After a pause, Shiro said, “I guess you didn’t get to take any pictures, then?” Another pause. “Er, well, that’s about it. We do that six or seven times, re-fuel, repeat. When we find a sammy and the rain passes, we call up Cricket and get ‘em to route some low-alt bombers on deck. Then we tally up with a white smoke rocket let the iron-slingers have at it. Easy.”

 

************************************

 

“Cricket this is Stormy Eleven, we have tally on SAM and a shitton of twenty-threes. Requesting ordnance at… Romeo-hotel-one-niner-five-stop-two-two-seven-lima-xray, over.

The Radio fizzed.

“Stormbringer One One that’s a copy, iron’s on the way.”

Shiro leaned back into his seat, his head tilted to the right. “There, now we wait and watch the fireworks.”

 

************************************

 

“What the fuck,” Shiro growled.

Down in that miserable patch of blasted jungle, a white phosphorus smoke rocket only just fizzled out, its fuel spent. One of Shiro’s two rocket pods was empty, and the other had only two of seven rounds left. Repeated dives under ten-thousand feet to mark the SAM site had given the galrans manning the anti-aircraft guns plenty of time to hone their sights. Shiro’s viper now had about six pounds of metal punched out of the fuselage by flak. Five hours since first tally, and it was now 1900 hours. Judging by the silence behind, punctuated during jinks by the thunk of a helmet slapping against the canopy, he was certain that Keith had passed out. “Cricket, Stormy. Patch me through to those sackless sons of bitches on deck.”

“Stormy Eleven this is Cricket. On deck now, over.”

Shiro took a deep breath. “This is Stormy, how the hell d’you expect to hit a damned thing at twenty above? You idiots have a shot at pinging your own mothers at that altitude. Drop to ten before releasing iron.” Uncomfortable silence. “I will shove my fist so far up your asses--”

“Whoa, is that a promise?”

“I--What?” Shiro sputtered mid-rant.

“Gunslinger Four Three to Stormy One One, you sound hot and bothered. Just the way I like it. Over.”

“Uh,”

“I’m gonna make all your dreams come true, Stormy. My thud’ll crater that SAM. All for the meager price of a single kiss, over.”

“...”

“Tally up.”

Shiro paused a heartbeat, then shrugged to no one in particular and flipped his fourth fire control switch. “Follow me and hit my smoke. Watch the crook of the river: lots of anti-air’s dug in there. Over.”

The viper dropped altitude at a steep enough angle to let gravity push its speed to over a thousand feet per second. At elevation of twelve thousand feet Shiro pulled back on the stick until his craft was flying level to the terrain. By now every gunnery crew knew to lead their shots a couple hundred feet in front of the silver bullet streaking through their killzone. The sheer hail of artillery aiming to turn him into a screeching fireball was all Shiro could see the last two miles to the SAM site. The heat of the jacketed lead melted the frost clean off his canopy. He heard two pinging off the wings of his aircraft.

Right on top of the SAM Shiro pulled down hard. Into a dive this sharp the pilot flew blind. When his instincts screamed “vertical,” he pulled the switch. Stormy Eleven’s second to last smoke rocket flew true, striking mud not twenty feet from the target. He hit a dime in the grass.

“Tally’s up.”

He pulled out of the dive flying upside down, under two thousand feet elevation. The drag of his jet, this low to the ground, made beautiful ripples on the canopy of the galran jungle. Ahead, Shiro saw the craggy mountain that would provide cover for his ascent to safety. He flipped his aircraft upright just in time to see Gunslinger streak past. The anti-air hadn’t even begun to swing back over to ready position. The second fighter flew through quiet air. And dropped eight 750 pound bombs over a mile from the SAM.

Shiro felt the shockwaves from the explosions behind him and sighed. A half second later he reached the shadow of the mountain and pulled into a high-angle ascent. He craned his neck to watch the idiot pull out of his attack run. Just as Incoherent, terrified screams scrambled across his radio.

Gunslinger shot into a suicide dive exactly five seconds after Shiro did, in the exact same place. He dropped his last two bombs and obliterated the missile site, two quarters on the dime. The exploding surface-to-air turret sent up a spectacular, mushrooming explosion hundreds of feet into the air. Exhaust from the jet’s howling twin engines were close enough to light a tree on fire as it looped around. The hooting and hollering pilot bent the throttle off and popped up into the sky, quickly accelerating to twice the speed of sound with a thunderous boom. Angry, impotent anti-aircraft rounds escorted the thud back into the wild blue sky.

“...”

“No need to thank me, your adoring silence is more than enough.”

Shiro laughed.

“Name’s Lance.”

“Shiro. You’re a good stick, Gunslinger. Over.”

“Compliment me on my flying next, baby.”

Shiro choked into his respirator.

 

************************************

 

At 0100 hours, back at Giddeus Air Force Base, the pilots of the 555th sang bawdy songs and got piss drunk.

 

_“The most beautiful girl that I did ever see--_  
_I dreamt that one day I would get inside her._  
_I finally got my way--I ride her every day._  
_She’s the only one for me, and she’s a fuckin’ viper._

_Singin’ aye, aye, aye, we’ll fight until we die,_  
_and our enemies are gone forever-more._  
_Rainin’ fire from above, for the kingdom that we love;_  
_we are the hounds of heaven! The bloody dogs of war.”_

 

Because the rookie took an involuntary nap on his first flight with the squadron, he had to go bowling.

At the stifling officer’s club, Keith took three shots of whiskey. After he slammed down the third glass, he sprinted to the other end of the long, long polished table. He took a running start and slid along on his greased-up belly, trying to knock down the three pins. Keith had missed three times already and was well on his way to being smashed out of his gourd.

“Cheer up, Keith,” Shiro said, watching from the smoky bar, nursing a beer. “The better the pilot, the worse it is to be GIB. We just can’t trust anyone else to fly better. I still pass out at least once a month when I’m riding behind.”

Keith gritted his teeth and started on the next trio of Jeremiah Weed’s finest. It tasted like a blend of lysol and gasoline. A dozen hands slapped him on the back. Cheers and jeers pushed the pilot onward.

Abruptly, a boot kicked open the front door. The bolt splintered the wooden door-frame, and a panther-like young man sauntered in. His skin had a dusky luster, and his short brown hair was artfully tousled. A pair of polished aviators sat perched on his head. The sleeves of his jumpsuit were wrapped around his waist, and he wore a ratty old tank top. Keith knocked over his glass pins and slid into a heap on the floor at the intruder’s feet.

Lance looked down, one eyebrow quirked. “‘Sup.” He looked around at the thirty-odd faces that were pinned to him now. “I come from a far-off land, looking for a Shiro.” He lifted both arms and announced with dramatic flair, “Lance has come to claim his prize.”

Behind Lance, a heavy-set man wearing a bandana fussed like a nervous hen over the broken door.

“Who the fuck’re you?” A few of the more aggressive jocks growled out. “Fighter pilots only.”

“He’s one of us, a thud driver.” Shiro called out. He hopped off his barstool, squared his shoulders, and approached the front door.

Lance’s eyes widened, and he whistled.

“Please be Shiro,” he said with a wink.

Keith stood up and pointed at Lance’s friend. “He can’t be a fighter pilot, he wouldn’t fit in the cockpit.” The pilots in the room broke out into laughter, and the big man shrunk back. Keith frowned and slurred, “S’not a joke.”

Lance sidled up and put an elbow on Keith’s shoulder. “Buy the man a drink, that’s a PJ.” The laughter died. “One day when you crash land in some galra-infested hellhole, Hunk here might be the angel that jumps five-hundred high from a chopper to pull your ass out the fire.”

“Booze him up!” Came the call from the bar. Two pairs of arms pulled Hunk toward the bar. He didn’t look enthused but was too intimidated to object. Keith paused, swaying. Then he followed behind.

“So. Shiro, I hope?” Lance looked at Shiro. Shiro nodded. “Mmm, yes. You’ll do nicely.”

Shiro endured a minute of ogling, then cleared his throat. “That was some flying out there today, but a thud’s a straight-line demon. Can’t match a viper at cornering. You could have slammed into the ground pulling a stunt like that.”

Lance shrugged. “I never worry about could-haves, cramps my style. Figured I ditched enough weight beforehand to make it through alright. Anyway,” He stepped forward and shot Shiro a wolfish grin. “A fine, honorable captain like yourself wouldn’t think of stiffing a humble admirer, would you?” He traced circles with his little finger into Shiro’s chest.

Shiro held his gaze for a couple seconds with his infamous stone-cold poker face.

Lance started sweating, his cocksure smile faltered. Another moment and he looked like a deer in the headlights.

It sent Shiro’s prey-drive into a frenzy. He couldn’t resist. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

The taller man tilted his Lance’s chin upward and kissed him full on the lips. It was a long kiss. The kind that forced you to breath your partner in. The room hooted and slammed drinking glasses onto the tables. Shiro pulled away when he’d had his fill. A thin line of saliva connected their lips for a heartbeat before evaporating in the heady heat of the stuffy room.

Lance backpedaled, his pinky still on Shiro’s chest. Then he tripped over his own foot and fell flat on his ass.

Shiro smiled but didn’t laugh.

Lance hopped back on the balls of his feet, his face cherry red. “Uh, wow.” He paused. “Thanks for the kiss, homie.”  The pitch of his voice shot up at the end.

“There’s more where that came from, for a deadshot like you.” Shiro leaned in closer, in a way that he didn’t even notice. But Lance did.

Lance fidgeted with the sleeves knotted around his waist. “Is it hot in here?” He swallowed hard.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

Lance closed his eyes and coughed into his fist. He cleared his throat. “Might take you up on that. Gotta check in on Hunk, though.” He avoided eye contact with Shiro and scanned the smoky room.

Back at the bar several empty glasses were sloppily stacked next to Hunk. He held up a double shot of weed, one sandal-ed foot planted firmly on the bar-top. "The only friend us sons of bitches will ever need!” He shouted, then downed it with gusto. The gallery of fighter pilots roared their approval.

They both laughed.

Lance turned to Shiro and beamed. “Alright.”


End file.
